


Not a Wound to Die of

by skadi_zlata



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Falls, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:30:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skadi_zlata/pseuds/skadi_zlata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Was it only Sherlock’s idea to fake his own death after the Reichenbach incident? Someone is eager to help him, but Sherlock is not going to like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Wound to Die of

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mygoldenbuttons for betaing

Three wounds in the last three years. Not very reassuring statistics.

The first one is a gunshot wound.

His left hand is a mess of blood and torn flesh. A network of tiny nerves, millions of them, so hard to ignore. But it is not a wound to die of, he keeps telling himself. You’d better think… What’s next?

Moriarty’s dead, and his friend Moran is sure that Sherlock is dead too, that they both are somewhere in the swirling water of the Reichenbach Fall. It’s not only luck that Sherlock is still alive. When the first bullet hits a rock less than an inch from his head while he is trying to drag himself over the top of the cliff after the fight with Moriarty, he starts back and calculates the chances immediately. He can see a dangerous slippery ledge below, it’s another possibility to escape. But Moran will follow him, desperate for revenge, and if Sherlock disappears, this man will come back for John who is waiting in a small hotel just a mile away from here, quite unaware of the danger. So there is only one way out. He decides to sacrifice his left hand, stretching it out deliberately, and lets Moran hit it. And then – a long awful cry, as if he is falling down to the abyss. Must be very convincing.

He should have taken only one more detail into account. The pain. It’s almost suicide to climb these wet rocks one-armed, on the verge of fainting, and to walk a narrow path, with the water roaring far beneath him. A new experience, and not a pleasant one.

Fortunately he doesn’t remember much of that journey afterwards, ten miles over the mountains in the darkness.

What’s next, indeed? He has no money, no documents. He looks suspicious. He needs emergency treatment, and as soon as possible.

John is probably looking for him already, but this awareness that somebody cares doesn’t help much. While Moran thinks that Sherlock is dead, there is no real danger for John, he is unimportant, then. If Moran starts to suspect something…

No, he can’t call John, at least now. And he wouldn’t call Mycroft.

The problem is suddenly solved when Mycroft manages to find his little brother himself. It seems like he has been watching Sherlock’s game with Moriarty and his gang, interested but not interfering, following every step of his mad relative. He could afford such an entertainment.

Sherlock finally passes out in a private Swiss hospital, letting other people bustle around him.

The next day Mycroft is sitting by his bed, surveying him with a smile.

“The surgeon was marvellous, wasn’t he? So kind to save your exquisite hand. You may even play a violin again,” he looks away and winces slightly, “though probably it will take some time. It must be wretchedly painful, no?”

“Not at all.”

It isn’t, most of the time, with all this amount of painkillers. He still can’t concentrate because of them. His thoughts are sluggish like cars in a traffic jam.

“So,” Mycroft says cheerfully, “now that I was able to help you…”

“I wasn’t asking for help.”

“I know, I know,” Mycroft purrs reassuringly. He never argues, though they both are perfectly aware of a simple fact that without proper medical treatment Sherlock could have become a cripple. “Think of it as my investment. You could do me a favour.”

“Explain.”

“Some delicate business in the Middle East. You could solve a little problem, and then I could help you to do away with the rest of Moriarty’s men. You don’t even have to ask me.”

A delicate business… and surely a risky one… but…

“It’s a deal.”

“There is something more I should tell you. Officially you are dead. I had to identify your poor body, to my profound grief.”

“How clever.”

“Thank you. Pleased to hear that you approve of my actions. I hope you are cautious enough not to ruin them. Nobody should know that you are alive till you are done with Moran and the others.”

“You didn’t tell John, then?”

“No, and it’s better if he stays out of it all. For his own sake, if not for yours.”

Sherlock closes his eyes. It’s always hard to admit that Mycroft is right sometimes.

***

His second wound is a deep gash on the left upper arm.

It’s all because of another “little job” for Mycroft. Sherlock doesn’t want to owe him anything. Money. Information. He needs both desperately, to secure the whole Moran’s gang, but not as a favour.

So he has to fetch some stolen documents in Paris. It’s easy to chase the thief down, to arrange a meeting, to get hold of them by force. But their present owner foolishly attacks him with a pocket knife, he can’t believe that it’s over. The fight is short. The disarmed bastard is smart enough to flee, leaving the thin file and his own knife behind. Sherlock doesn’t follow him. It’s the papers that matter, not the man.

At first, he is not really worried about the scratch, rather childishly proud of himself. Merely upset because of the torn sleeve. He should demand some extra cash from Mycroft to buy a new coat.

What would Mycroft do in his place, huh?

The wound is bleeding. But it’s late in the evening, no one to see him in the empty streets, and his hotel, cheap and filthy, but perfectly located, is only a ten minute walk from here. He’ll be fine.

An unsmiling girl at the reception desk doesn’t look up when he passes her by. She’s probably not very happy to work here and to watch all the strange and unpleasant people loitering in the lobby. “Helpful staff” – that’s how they call it. It’s really helpful sometimes when nobody looks at you.

Sherlock unlocks the door with a card, switches on the dim light. By the time he reaches the bathroom, blood is already dripping from his fingers. He cautiously takes off the unwearable coat, torn and stained, and the shirt too, cursing under his breath, and tries to clean the wound, which looks rather nasty, and uses a towel as a temporary dressing. Actually, he must stitch the gash, but not now. Later. His right hand is trembling slightly, so he can’t do it immediately, anyway. It’s interesting to examine the reaction of his own body in such circumstances.

He manages to text Mycroft, very slowly, one letter after another. “Papers destroyed. SH”. No melodramatic gestures, like burning them down, it’s better just to tear them into small pieces – and to send this classified information straight to the Paris sewerage.

Sherlock doesn’t even look through the documents before he gets rid of them. The adrenaline rush is over, now he just needs to rest for some time. Not much sleep during the last two weeks.

In a few hours things get worse. The towel is soaked with blood, he has to replace it with another one.

He’s lying on the bed, half clothed, shivering. There is a stain of blood on the sheet. The only light in the room comes from the lamp upon the table.

Then he opens his eyes – and it’s daytime, no doubt, because a soft grey shimmer is coming through the dusty curtains, but is it the _next_ day? The left arm is hot and throbbing, his head is heavy.

That’s what he feels.

Emptiness. Exhaustion.

Hours wasted.

He lives life one day at a time, never bothering about the consequences – it’s too dull. No wonder that he hardly realizes the amount of work at the start. Will it take several months to cut off Moran’s connections in Europe and to frame him? A year maybe? Mycroft could have told him that it’s a dangerous delusion, but he has some reasons of his own. He is quite content with the present situation. Sherlock is not. Now he is working for Mycroft, not for his own pleasure, living with false documents, always short of money, unable return to London. He can’t ruin what’s already done… Mycroft is still paying his half of the rent, on the pretext that he is intending to turn the flat at 221B Baker Street into some kind of a memorial place, dedicated to his late brother (he keeps teasing Sherlock about it: “Now that you are dead, it’s so honourable for the family”). And John is still there too. Surely he will understand everything, once it is safe to tell him. Surely he will.

Sherlock is sweating despite the chill, waves of heat passing over him. Maybe he should do something about it. Pulsating dots of sudden darkness obscure most of the room when he tries to stand up abruptly. Not a brilliant idea. Better to lie down again.

The room is booked for the whole week, and it’s good. He has no need to go out, and no one is going to disturb him. It’s rather dubious that someone will come to clean the room up before he leaves. Such an excellent service.

He wakes up several times, drenched in sweat.

It’s hard to move, even to think. His body doesn’t obey him. It’s unbearably sluggish. At first, it is irritating. Then a little bit frightening. “But I’m not going to die… am I?”

He dreams of the night at the Reichenbach Fall, of the swollen torrent, plunging into a tremendous abyss. He dreams of falling down, deep down. Roaring water, cold and fierce – it’s all that’s left of the whole world. But all of a sudden someone’s arms close around him, pulling him out of this whirling hell. John. It’s John.

…Somebody is in the room. Gentle fingers touch the improvised dressing on his upper arm, start to unwrap it.

“John?” he calls out in a hoarse voice. So stupid. It’s an unknown man, a doctor probably, because there is Mycroft in Sherlock's side vision, elegantly sitting in a shabby hotel armchair.

“You are so reckless, little brother, and too proud to ask for help, as always… Do you really miss him?”

Sherlock is preoccupied at the moment, suppressing a moan, so he doesn’t answer. Maybe it’s just a horrid feverish dream, but it seems that Mycroft is half-smiling, as if enjoying the view. Is it so pleasing to see him suffering and barely controlling himself?

A first rate pervert, damn him. He would like his little brother to be obedient, dependent, begging for help.

Mycroft keeps talking, while the doctor is busy with his torture.

“I could inform you about him, you know. There is not much to say, though. A rather dull ordinary life. Nothing happens to him. He is still upset about your… death. Cherishing his grief. So devoted to you… Strange, isn’t it?” to Sherlock’s surprise, it sounds like envy. Or even jealousy. “I wonder if he will be a little bit disappointed to learn that you are still alive. So much sorrow, and all in vain!”

And _this_ sounds like gloating.

“It was your idea!” Sherlock wants to hiss angrily, but bites his lip instead – and tastes blood.

“Does it hurt?” Mycroft asks politely, perhaps meaning the wound, not his words about John.

It does. Should he ask for morphine? Is the bloody doctor instructed not to give him any injections?

Doesn’t matter. It hurts, and it’s fine. Pain isn’t good for thinking, as well as any painkillers, but now he doesn’t want to think. He just wants to feel he’s alive.

***

The third wound is a bullet hole straight through the deltoid muscle, and it’s the left arm again, curse his luck. The universe tends to follow unpleasant patterns sometimes.

Sherlock is more experienced in medical matters than three years ago, but it is of little consolation. This fragmentary knowledge only provides him with a variety of prospects. A bone splintered? A joint crushed? Any nerve damage? Is it normal that he feels no pain yet?

He is not alone this time, so he gets a basic emergency treatment immediately after the skirmish in the dark and empty parking lot. He shouldn’t have been there, but he wanted to. Mycroft has provided him with a team of three men, some unofficial human resource, like Sherlock himself, to hunt down a minor criminal, Parker by the name, and to question this gentleman on the point of Moran’s present whereabouts.

The gang is almost broken up, now it’s possible to incriminate Moran. He will be urged to return to London in a few days, that’s for certain. But when? What name is he using? Parker, however insignificant he is, happens to know it.

Good for Sherlock, bad for Parker.

Mycroft’s small squad can cope without Sherlock, but it’s the last step to Moran’s arrest, how can he miss it?!

The three men under his command evidently lack such enthusiasm. They are calm and concentrated – it’s just a job for them. Sherlock is the only freak with frantic eyes, agitated like a boy playing a game of war.

And the only one who gets hurt. That’s humiliating.

Oh, just a slight correction. By now Parker looks somewhat injured too – simply because of his uttermost reluctance to cooperate. Two of Mycroft’s men are working on him. Their methods of interrogation might seem peculiar to a police officer, but there are no police within sight.

Meanwhile, the third man applies a bandage to Sherlock’s wound and assures him that potentially it isn’t life threatening, though the muscle is torn. “But these gunshot wounds are unpredictable, you see,” he observes thoughtfully. “And don’t you worry, the pain will come soon.” What a relief for the patient to hear that, Sherlock tells himself wryly.

They both don’t mention an ambulance, for a wound like that causes lots of questions. Mycroft will settle the problem, as he always does, but once there is no immediate danger, it’s better to wait till morning, when Moran is finally arrested. No rumours of Sherlock Holmes’ return until then.

Sherlock was clever enough to leave his long and hindering trench coat in the van, as they all rushed out to seize Parker. Now he scrambles into it, pulling it over the bandage and the tattered remains of the shirt, slowly slipping the injured arm through the sleeve. By the time he fulfills this complicated task, Parker’s information is at his disposal. Moran is on a plane to London. Mycroft’s agents can meet him at the airport. Sherlock would like to join them, but Moran may see him first and panic. You never know what happens when such a man panics.

Let’s stay away this time.

Matters have gone so far now that they can move without his help, Sherlock knows that. Mycroft will arrange everything somehow. It’s a deal between them.

Sherlock instructs the team to inform Mycroft ten minutes after he leaves. Mycroft will find him anyway, but Sherlock needs some time on his own, he has something to do.

The cabbie must think he is drunk. The pain comes in waves, Sherlock is really dizzy and slightly disorientated. And nervous too.

He didn’t expect he would be so nervous.

At last… It’s 221B Baker Street. A memorial place, as Mycroft calls it. Sherlock wonders what it’s like for John to live in a sort of museum, with all the reminders of a presumably dead person.

He has no keys, but it’s a child’s play for him to open any door. The light is on – John must be sleepless again. Sherlock comes up the stairs, slowly and hesitantly, and stops at the doorway. He’s back home. What’s the matter, wasn’t he counting days, hours, minutes till this moment? It isn’t panic, no, it can’t be panic. It’s just… perhaps he should have asked Mycroft to talk to John first?

But it’s too late, John walks into the living room.

For a few moments he stares at Sherlock without speaking, it seems he is going to faint right now. As if he saw a ghost.

Maybe I look like a ghost, Sherlock thinks grimly. Pale. Exhausted. Silent.

“So… you are not dead,” assumes John finally.

“Apparently I’m not.”

All he wants to do is to lie down on the sofa and close his eyes, to feel that he is really back home after a long journey. But John doesn’t say anything, expressions changing on his face. And the room is not quite the same, too tidy without the usual mess of his papers, and dirty mugs, and other less appropriate things like some rotting body parts for a new experiment. It looks uninhabited. Suddenly Sherlock feels uneasy. It’s not his home anymore, it’s a flat of a dead genius. And John… Maybe he’s not the same either. Just someone who lives here because of an unlucky train of events, not knowing what to do with his own life and where to move on.

“For three years,” John breathes out, speaking each word separately, “you had no time to inform me that you were alive. Why bother coming now?”

Sherlock’s arm is burning, aching badly, and it’s very disturbing, he can’t think properly, speak properly.

“To tell you – it’s over, John. Moran… he will be arrested this morning. The gang is destroyed, totally.”

Suddenly he realizes that all the words are most incoherent, at least from John’s point of view. John was unaware of the danger, unaware of what Sherlock was doing during these long three years. Of his work, of his wounds, of the day he was lying alone and feverish in a hotel room.

Moriarty and Moran – they don’t matter much to John. It’s more important that Sherlock has left him behind. He must explain himself, but what can he possibly say? “Look, I’m sorry, it wasn’t my idea”? “It was for your own sake, take no offence”? Hastily he looks over the options, all his usual reactions numbed by pain, but John breaks the pause first, nodding slightly.

“Oh, yes, I see. A game that took you three years to finish,” his mouth twitches, and he adds bitterly: “Mycroft was right, then.”

“What did he tell you?” A tight knot starts to form in his chest, and likely not because of the wound.

“That you’re not worth grieving.”

Silence falls between them, and then, without a word, Sherlock turns and goes out of the room, slowly and unsteadily.

“Is that all?!” John shouts fiercely at his back – a sudden explosion of sound. “Is that all?!”

The narrow staircase is endless. He’s dizzy with guilt, and anger, and pity for himself, and pity for John, and pride that makes further conversation impossible.

A strange heaviness comes over him, as he closes the black front door and sits down on a step beneath it. He can’t stay here for long, but just for a while?.. God knows what he should say about the origins of the wound in a hospital, if Mycroft doesn’t turn up in time – and it’s better for Mycroft if he doesn’t.

It has never occurred to him that Mycroft might not restore his identity, once Moran’s case is over. But isn’t it much more honourable and preferable to have a respectful dead genius in the family tree than a disturbingly active and stubborn sociopath among your relatives? At least, for these three years Mycroft has turned him into someone who doesn’t really exist. A perfect nameless tool to solve delicate problems far away from London. Why would he want to change anything?

What a strange crazy thought… Only an arch-enemy could do that.

Yet… “He is not worth grieving”. A brief vision of Mycroft, holding John’s hand and soothing him, makes Sherlock sick. Did Mycroft have some plans for John too? Why would he pay half of the rent for this flat, otherwise? A nice suitable pretext to visit John regularly…

Sherlock was always good at manipulating people, but who could compare to Mycroft? While he was cutting off Moran’s connections in Europe, Mycroft was destroying his own connections with anyone worth returning to. In such a long time he must have succeeded.

John will never forgive him. Some wounds don’t heal.

They are not deadly but close to it.

“Must be painful, no?” Mycroft’s voice pierces through his disorganized mind. “Think yourself smart, little brother, don’t you? You came across someone who was smarter this time.”

An unexpected hollow sound of footsteps rushing down the stairs startles him out of a trance. Sherlock struggles to stand up, but with little success, and seats back, weary and numb. The door flings open behind him.

“It’s not that… I mean…” John pants out awkwardly, hurriedly – and stops all of a sudden. “Are you… hurt?”

“It’s nothing,” he mumbles rather weakly and unconvincing, to his own dismay. “I don’t ask you for help.”

“Maybe you should.”

Sherlock looks up, feeling quite miserable, and meets John’s gaze. It’s not just a worried look of a doctor. These are the eyes of a man who cares, despite anything.

“Yes, maybe I should have asked… three years ago,” Sherlock says with an effort. “I don’t expect you to help me now. But…” he hesitates for an instant, and then the words burst out with a desperate longing: “Oh, John… Would you?..”

And it’s so natural to obey the muttered commands as John helps him up, and to admit that he’s a fool, and not to pretend he’s fine. It’s almost like his dream of the Reichenbach Fall – these arms, this voice, this final feeling of safety in the world whirling around him.

…Sherlock lies on the sofa, keenly aware of John’s comforting presence, though his eyes are closed.

“What happened to your hand? Looks like an old scar.”

Sherlock smiles faintly at the touch. This scar is a sort of self-justification for him. It’s a choice made for John’s sake, a sacrifice without any hesitation. Maybe he will be able to explain that.

His phone beeps in the pocket of his trench coat, across the room. Sherlock pays no attention – it must be a message from Mycroft.

Indeed it is. But not the one he expects.

“Moran has escaped. We need to set up a trap for him. Hope you’re not dying at the moment, you could be a perfect bait. Surely Dr. Watson would like to participate in the game? MH.”


End file.
